Danger Nights
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: "On Danger Nights, as Mycroft Holmes has dubbed them, nothing is certain. The world seems to hold its breath while tiptoeing around the man who might or might not prove to be a hazard for himself." Fortunately for Sherlock, he's not alone. And nothing's going to happen to him as long as John has a say in it. Also features Mycroft and Mrs Hudson.
1. Danger Nights

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes**: Minor spoilers for **Sherlock** BBC (entire series).

It´s not slash but can probably be read as such if you put on your strongest goggles.

I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

And now: enjoy!

o o o

**Danger Nights  
**

o o o

On Danger Nights, as Mycroft Holmes has dubbed them, nothing is certain. The world seems to hold its breath while tiptoeing around the man who might or might not prove to be a hazard for himself, with a diversity of possible consequences that are as varied as the triggers which initialize this state of uncertainty.

It means that the man in question, Sherlock Holmes, cannot be trusted not to do something stupid despite knowing better.

It means that Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Dr. John Watson have to keep a close watch on him in order to keep him from harm. The main problem there is that a) Sherlock doesn´t like to be monitored, especially not by his older brother, and b) that he can easily outwit them all if he wants to.

John has only ever seen Sherlock once on a _real_ Danger Night, after he had returned from identifying Irene Adler´s body in the morgue on Christmas Eve. He appeared surprisingly composed back then, but had subsequently been deaf to the world for days, had eaten and slept even less than usual.

Mycroft however and even Mrs. Hudson are aware that the last time has been a mere walk in the park compared to other occasions. Mycroft hasn´t been lying when he told John that he is concerned about his brother, because he is constantly worrying, in fact cannot be anything but. As Aristotle has declared: "No great mind has ever existed without a touch of _madness_." This is very true in Sherlock, and there are times at which the madness takes over, invading Sherlock´s brain and overriding the brilliance and all sense of rationality until there´s nothing left but despair and loneliness and the wish to extinguish it, no matter what.

At least this is how Sherlock has described it to Mycroft, once, in a strange twilight zone Mycroft has trouble recalling clearly; Sherlock had been in a drug-rehab clinic at the time, and after going through the worst of the withdrawal, while he didn´t seem to have found back to his old self, Mycroft stayed with him for most of the time. They had never been close, but Sherlock, who considered himself alone in the world, needed at least some sense of direction, of having someone whom he could depend on. Which he hated, obviously, but Mycroft simply hadn´t known what else to do. He couldn´t bear the idea to leave Sherlock alone, so he had stayed. He had sat on the floor with his brother, who was always huddling against a wall of his room, and Sherlock, partly to distract himself from the lingering withdrawal pains, partly because the words wanted out and he just couldn´t seem to stop them, talked like he had never talked before. He talked until he was hoarse, getting agitated at times and nearly shouting, then again dropping down to a whisper. Mycroft didn´t always listen; some of it he didn´t want to hear, some didn´t even make sense. But there were things he wouldn´t ever forget, things which he had saved in his memory for times to come, because he could take them out and listen to them again when things between him and Sherlock became particularly nasty once again. The memories would help him remember that despite their constant rivalry and use of mutual insults Sherlock cherished him.

Sherlock didn´t seem to remember that time later on, probably having "deleted" it, or simply refusing to look back to this absolute low point in his life. Mycroft finds that he can´t for the life of him recall the colour of the walls or how the room looked like, but he remembers the endless hours on the cold floor, with Sherlock´s voice around him, steady and unsteady at once.

It had been a close call as Sherlock had nearly overdosed, and ever since then, Mycroft has been on alert.

**o**

John Watson has gotten used to the often rather unusual demeanour of his flatmate. They have become friends, and as a friend, you stick together even if it involves enduring impromptu violin concerts at two in the morning and being interrupted in the shower because there´s new evidence in a case which _obviously_ _couldn´t wait, John_.

Most of their mutual acquaintances, which aren´t that many, are still puzzled by their ability to share a flat without murdering one another. They are underestimating them both, of course. John is neither endlessly patient nor a saint, but he values a man who thinks first and talks later, and with whom he can actually have serious discussions once there´s no distraction in the form of a murder. He finds it easy to talk to Sherlock, even though the consulting detective does have a talent to drive you up the wall at times.

And Sherlock is grateful to have John, for a multitude of reasons. He likes John, which is a good start. The doctor wears his heart on his tongue sometimes, but he´s thoughtful and intelligent and good company. He´s not so easily intimidated, not even by Sherlock. He reads, which is a definite plus. He buys groceries, which Sherlock tends to forget. And he keeps the detective grounded. Which is why Sherlock doesn´t even resent him messing with his sock index, as John has done after a few false alarms for possible Danger Nights, all undoubtedly issued by Mycroft.

But tonight´s different. Even before John gets the text from the older Holmes, he realizes that something is wrong. Sherlock is at home when John comes back from work, pacing to and fro in the living room. John has seen Sherlock in various states of frenzy, but this is different. He is fully dressed, still wearing his coat even, and he is muttering under his breath, pressing his fingertips to his temples. He doesn´t give any sign that he has heard John´s greeting or even registered his presence. The doctor can´t understand what Sherlock´s saying; he catches single words but can´t make any sense of them. At a small sound behind him he turns around and finds Mrs Hudson standing at the top of the stairs, wringing her hands: "Oh John, I´m so relieved you´re here! He´s been like that for half an hour, I didn´t know what to do-"

John interrupts her: "Mrs. Hudson, what happened?"

She shrugs helplessly: "He came home and started doing that. I tried to call you, dear, I think it might be Danger Night."

John takes his phone out of his pocket: "I´m sorry, I didn´t hear it." There are three missed calls, all from their landlady, and one text message, from Mycroft: _Danger Night. Had a row with S. earlier. Call me if necessary. MH_

Mrs. Hudson eyes Sherlock with a grief-stricken expression: "Oh dear, what shall we do?"

John sighs: "We could wait till he drops from exhaustion. Only that might take days."

He approaches Sherlock and grips both his upper arms firmly: "_Sherlock_," he says gently, catching the other´s gaze.

The consulting detective´s eyes are bloodshot and he flinches visibly at being stopped like this, but he doesn´t try to break away. He looks at John as though being surprised at seeing him: "Don´t let me out of the flat tonight," he says without preamble, sounding wary and void of the energy that usually fuels him. His expression is unguarded and vulnerable, and even though he´s taller than John, he somehow feels small and frail. He´s not going to take on the world like this.

John gives him a reassuring smile: "I won´t. "

Sherlock begins to tremble, but he looks relieved. "I can´t be alone tonight," he says in a low voice. "I can´t be alone. I can´t be trusted. I can´t stop thinking."

"It´s all right," John replies, "I´m here and I´m going to stay home. We can just... sit on the sofa, shall we?"

"Can´t sit. The thoughts won´t stop."

John knows better than to contradict him at this point. "Okay. What do you want to do?"

A forlorn expression mingles with the exhaustion on Sherlock´s face: "I don´t know..."

John studies him: "You look completely knackered. Would lying down be acceptable?"

"No," Sherlock whispers, closing his eyes for a moment. "I can´t lie down either. Resting means allowing new thoughts."

"What about tea? You said eating slows you down. Maybe it´s what you need right now."

Sherlock snorts: "I don´t need slowing down. I need... a reboot."

Ah. Finally touching the subject.

John decides to tackle the issue head-on:"I take it you had a row with your brother?"

Sherlock hisses: "Yes, and I really _don´t_ want to talk about it."

"Maybe you should. It might help."

"I need a cigarette."

"Now you´re stalling."

"Fine. I need _two_ cigarettes."

"Ha bloody ha."

Sherlock seems to sag, his shoulders are drooping. John gently pulls him toward the sofa: "Come on."

And Sherlock doesn´t protest when John pulls him down until they are both sitting, knee to knee. Neither of them notices Mrs. Hudson sneaking into the kitchen, where she puts the kettle on.

Sherlock leans back and closes his eyes again: "Maybe sitting isn´t such a bad idea after all."

John lets go of his friend´s arms: "Whenever you´re ready."

"I _don´t_ want to _talk _about it."

"Maybe if you did I wouldn´t need to bolt the door on days like this."

Sherlock is too depleted to answer. It was a minor row, nothing out of the ordinary really. But Mycroft manages to get to him like no one else does, and for some reason his remarks are hurting more than any other´s. On some days, days like this, Sherlock is just not prepared to deal with them.

John regards Sherlock: his face looks haggard. Probably hasn´t eaten in days. He´s glad to hear Mrs. Hudson bustling about in the kitchen; tea is a very welcome prospect.

"You´re staring," Sherlock mutters, then sighs:"It´s not always Mycroft´s fault," he volunteers rather unexpectedly, but won´t elaborate any further.

John nods; it´s more than he´d anticipated, and at least Sherlock seems to calm down. He even accepts a cup of tea and then another, and eats a few biscuits with it. He won´t part with his coat or his shoes and can´t be persuaded to go to bed and lie down. Yet he´s rather composed now, and doesn´t object when John eventually turns on the telly, after Mrs. Hudson has left.

**o**

Long after midnight, Sherlock nods off. John gets up, yawning, and gently coaxes Sherlock to stretch out on the sofa so as to get more comfortable. He will be warm enough in his coat, but John spreads a blanket over him nevertheless.

Before John goes to bed, he texts Mycroft: _He´s okay now. Danger Night´s over. JW_

The answer comes immediately, as if Mycroft´s been waiting up: _Thanks to you. MH_

With one relieved look at his sleeping friend, John ascends the stairs to his bedroom, glad that he doesn´t have to sleep in the living-room or run after Sherlock through the city at night. Glad that Sherlock is all right.

He leaves a light on, just in case.

**o**

Mycroft beholds his sleeping brother for a while, thinking that he is not entirely okay after all, as he is much too vulnerable; still, this is so much better than the image of Sherlock huddling into a hospital-issued dressing-gown, the white of which is nearly matching his skin-tone, and talking ceaselessly until his voice gives out.

Thank goodness for Dr. John Watson.

**o**

**The End**

**o**

Thank you for reading. And yes, I like the idea that Mycroft has a camera installed in 221B, because it´d certainly fit him.**  
**


	2. Companion-piece to main story

**Disclaimer**:

* * *

_Hey there,  
_

just a little companion-piece to the main story, as kindly requested by christistina. Thank you!

It´s so to speak the blank space between 'Yet he´s rather composed now, and doesn´t object when John eventually turns on the telly, after Mrs. Hudson has left.' and 'Long after midnight, Sherlock nods off. John gets up, yawning, and gently coaxes Sherlock to stretch out on the sofa so as to get more comfortable. He will be warm enough in his coat, but John spreads a blanket over him nevertheless.'

* * *

_Breakfast at Tiffany´s_ is on. John deems it suitable enough not to get Sherlock worked up again. He needn´t have worried, though: his friend is staring at the screen with an absent expression on his face, telling John that Sherlock´s not really following the story, but that´s okay. He´s relaxed now, melting into the sofa in a way that betrays his bone-tiredness.

His eyes close for a brief moment, but then he suddenly jerks up, his breath hitching: "John?"

"´m here," John mumbles, casually putting his hand on Sherlock´s shoulder; an effective way to chase off the demons. Or probably, Mycroft.

Sherlock sighs, turning his attention to the TV. He has John to keep him grounded and that´s all he needs for now. The warm weight of his friend´s hand is comforting; Sherlock can almost believe that this is the living room of normal people, spending their time doing what is considered 'normal' by the public, like staying in and watching TV, finding nothing unusual about it.

If only it were that simple. For all his brilliance, he has always been unable to turn his brain off for once and actually enjoy what he considers to be mediocrity. Only with John, it doesn´t seem as dull as he expected it, but surprisingly agreeable. A choice of pastime in its own right, nothing to be frowned upon. How strange.

Sherlock studies the faces on the screen, the motions of the actors, the way they talk. Life can´t really have been slower back then, he muses, but there´s an elegance about it that seems lost nowadays.

They watch in silence for a while; Sherlock doesn´t even notice that he has finally stopped pondering, but finds himself absorbed by the film at last.

Unexpectedly, the detective breaks the silence once more, shortly before the film ends: "I thought people like him didn´t exist anymore. Apparently, I was wrong," he murmurs and closes his eyes, leaving John uncertain as to whether he means George Peppard or his respective character, and what he´s implying at all, or whether he isn´t implying anything.

When Sherlock´s breathing eventually evens out, John turns his head to look at him. The detective´s head´s tilted to the side, his face partially hidden by the collar of his coat. He´s far too pale, and there are dark smudges underneath his eyes, which is probably why he´s looking haggard. Apart from the fact that the skin over his cheekbones is taut, emphasizing how skinny he is. And must have been for some time, John muses. If Sherlock ever were to put on more weight, he´d have to have all his suits altered.

_Completely irrelevant right now, John,_ Sherlock´s voice says in his head, and John smiles down on his sleeping friend. Sherlock´s hand has curled up against the sofa´s backrest, giving him an illusively innocent look. But he also looks peaceful, and that is a rare treat.

John slowly sits up; they are out of the woods for now.

* * *

**Thank you for reading!**

For those of you who aren´t familiar with the movie: 'Fred', George Peppard´s character, does in fact remind me of John, or maybe it´s the other way round. He adores Audrey Hepburn´s character 'Holly' and puts up with her antics because he´s enchanted by her, willing to do almost anything for her, but he also doesn´t allow her to fool him. Sounds familiar, methinks. =)


End file.
